“Sounds like he was hypocritical and devoid of compassion,” Spencer says.

  “Yes, exactly. I didn’t fully realize that until later when I thought back and saw his lack of empathy in general. I’ve never been the best at opening up and letting people in, and I think that whole experience made it worse.”

  It occurs to me yet again how easy Spencer is to talk to. I’ve always felt like I could tell him things, even when we first met on LoveLinks. Back then, I thought it was because of the element of anonymity, the distance naturally created by not being face to face. It’s carried over since we met in person, though.

  “Okay, enough serious talk,” I say before Spencer can formulate a response. I rarely talk about my ex because he’s not worth the breath it takes to speak his name, and it sounds like Spencer’s ex is the same. Plus, talking about past relationships with the guy I wish I were currently dating feels a bit weird. “What do you want to do when we finish our drinks?”

  “Check out the light display further down the street?” Spencer suggests. “Get something else to eat? Dessert, perhaps?”

  “As Jordy would say, I never turn down dessert.”

  *****

  This whole ‘being friends’ thing is harder than I anticipated. For the most part, I’m able to compartmentalize, similar to how I do with work and life. Spencer thinks it’s best if we’re just friends? Fine, we’re just friends. That’s the sensible part of me. The other part—the one that’s ruled by my heart and perhaps even my hormones—romanticizes this night and longs for more. I get butterflies when Spencer accidentally brushes my hand as we walk. I find myself staring at his mouth as we eat warm cinnamon donuts. I wonder what the low rumble of his voice and sexy accent would sound like speaking intimate words in the dark.

  That last one makes me contemplate taking a dip in the nearby Bellevue River in the hopes of getting my errant thoughts under control.

  “Hollie?”

  The way Spencer says my name makes me think it’s not the first time he’s said it.

  “Sorry, Spencer.”

  “No need to apologize.” Spencer stops me with a gentle hand on my arm. We’ve just come from watching a band that played acoustic covers of popular songs, and are back in Market Square. “Have you had enough for one evening? After your busy day, you must be knackered.”

  Knackered. I love when he uses Brit speak. “I am tired, but I’m enjoying myself so much, I hate to leave.”

  “This doesn’t have to be our only time visiting,” Spencer says. “The festival is on until January, so we could come again some night if you like.”

  My heart swells at the offer. Spencer is serious about being in my life, even if it’s not in a romantic sense. Maybe…no. No, I can’t let myself go into maybe territory.

  “That food stall up there has pies and tarts,” Spencer says, pointing. “And if I’m not mistaken, I believe they have a particular British holiday favorite. Does your love of all things British extend to mince pies?”

  “I love mince pies. My Grams used to make them every Christmas. She recruited Louisa and me to be her little kitchen helpers when we were old enough. I haven’t made them since she died, but I always buy some around the holidays.”

  “Christmas is a few weeks off yet, but may I buy you your first mince pie of the season?”

  “I’d love that.”

  We approach the stall and take in the array of pies and tarts in a variety of sizes. Spencer speaks to the couple running the stall, who also have British accents. The three of them get chatting about where they’re from, where they went to school, and what they’re doing in Canada while I peruse the pies.

  The woman separates from the guys and comes to join me. “Having trouble deciding, dear?”

  I’m lingering in front of the cherry bakewells. They’re a favorite of mine, but I’d better stick to the mince tarts since I’ve already had cinnamon donuts, a peppermint brownie, and a few free samples, including something called Winter Wonderland Fudge, and a small slice of fruit cake.

  “Everything looks so good,” I tell her. “Will you be here every weekend throughout the festival?”

  “We will. Every weekend, plus Tuesday and Thursday evenings.”

  “Then I’ll be back, and I’ll make it my mission to try every kind of pie,” I say, and she laughs. “For now, I’ll have—”

  “Mince pies,” Spencer says, stepping up beside me and flashing a smile at the woman. He’s holding a large bakery-style box with one lone mince tart nestled in a napkin on top. We say good night to the couple and I reiterate my promise to be back soon.

  Once we’re a few feet away from the stall, Spencer pulls me aside to a quiet spot under a street lamp. He hands me the bakery box and takes the mince pie off the top. “This is for me and that is for you.” My expression must be uncertain because he jerks his chin toward the box. “Go on.”

  I open the lid to find four mince pies with holly leaves made of pastry pressed on top—just like Grams used to make—plus two cherry bakewells. I had no idea Spencer was even paying attention when I was looking at the bakewells. A lump forms in my throat. I will not cry over pies. I won’t, I won’t. “This is so sweet, Spencer. Thank you.”

  “It’s my pleasure.” He’s studying my face intently. We’re standing so close, I can feel the heat from his body. For a moment, I think he’s going to kiss me. In the next second, his gaze swings in the direction of the parking lot. “Ready to call it a night?”

  I reluctantly say yes, and we make our way to the parking lot. We head for my car without a word, stopping to face each other when we reach the driver’s side. I had thought since we weren’t on a date, there would be no awkward moment of wondering how to part ways and whether we should kiss or not. The ease we experienced most of the night is gone, replaced by an undercurrent of tension between us.

  Spencer shifts from foot to foot. He appears to steel himself as he draws in a sharp breath and says, “Well.” He holds out his arms and, after a moment’s hesitation, I set the bakery box on the roof of my car and step into his embrace. Our arms lock around each other, and I press my face into the slightly scratchy material of Spencer’s coat. I can feel his warm breath on my ear, and the shift in his breathing makes me think he’s smelling my hair. His face remains close to mine as he eases away from me. Our eyes meet and, once again, I think he might kiss me. My breath hitches when he leans in and…kisses my cheek.

  The sigh that passes my lips is completely involuntary and sounds loud to my own ears. Spencer’s wince tells me he heard it.

  His movements are jerky as he steps away to open my car door. “Thank you for meeting me tonight, Hollie. I had a wonderful time.”

  “I did too, Spencer. Thanks for asking me.”

  I practically dive into my car, desperate for this awkward goodbye to be over with. He hands me the bakery box and I set it carefully on the passenger seat. With the car door still open, Spencer waits while I buckle my seatbelt and start the car. He’s back to shifting from foot to foot, and now his brows are drawn together in a deep V. He ducks down to my eye level, his mouth opening and closing several times as if he’s searching for the right words and can’t find them. I know that feeling.

  Finally, he lets out a quiet sigh. “Drive safe.”

  “You too. I’ll see you soon?”

  His confidence seems to return as quickly as it left because his voice is firm when he says, “You will. Good night, Hollie.” He closes my door and gives me a little wave through the window. I expect him to walk to his own car, but he waits as I pull out of my parking spot. I check my rearview mirror when I reach the parking lot’s exit, and he’s standing in the exact same place, his hands jammed in the pockets of his coat.

  Could it be I’m not the only one who’s confused by this whole ‘just friends’ thing?

  CHAPTER TEN

  The next day, Jordy has a half day at school and is supposed to spend the afternoon at the center. When she doesn’t show up, I call her cell phone, which goes straight to voicemail. I leave a message and try again an hour later with the same results.

  She doesn’t show up for her after-school shift on Tuesday either, and my calls continue to go to voicemail. When I come out of a late meeting, my assistant has left a message on my desk from Jordy: Sorry for missing my last two shifts. I’ll try to be there tomorrow and will explain everything then.

  I’m relieved she’s okay, and yet I can’t help the niggly little voice of worry creeping into my thoughts. That worry intensifies on Wednesday morning when I receive a call from the administrative assistant at Jordy’s school.

  “You’re listed as one of Jordyn Jenkins’ emergency contacts,” he says. “She hasn’t been at school this week, and we’ve been unable to reach her or her father.”

  “I haven’t seen her this week,” I tell him. “She missed her shifts at work on Monday and Tuesday, and her cell goes straight to voicemail.”

  “Do you think her absence is a cause for concern?” he asks.

  Absolutely. “No,” I lie, hoping my rising anxiety isn’t obvious in my tone. “She left a message yesterday saying she’d be here for work today, so I’m sure she’s fine.”

  There’s a long pause on the other end of the line. I’m about to ask if he’s still there when he releases a quiet sigh. “Since you’re listed as one of Jordy’s emergency contacts, I don’t think it’s out of line to tell you this has happened before. Jordy had a prolonged absence in September and, since she has an open file with Children’s Aid, we had to call them to do a wellness check.”

  “What happened?”

  “We were only notified that she was fine, but no other details were given. She returned to school the next week and it hasn’t happened again until this week.”

  Worry twists my stomach into knots. “Okay. Can you give me a chance to track her down before notifying Children’s Aid? If I can’t find her today, I’ll call the school tomorrow to let you know.”

  He agrees, and we end the call.

  Jordy doesn’t like talking about her home life, but she’s mentioned Children’s Aid case workers a few times; one was assigned to her family after Jordy’s brother was sent to jail, and her sister has one too. I’d prefer not to get them involved unless it’s absolutely necessary. Jordy will be eighteen in a few months and she’ll be graduating from high school soon after that. I’d hate to see her life upended if it was recommended that she be put in a group home or foster care for such a short time. I have a terrible feeling she’d run away before she let that happen anyway.

  I keep trying Jordy’s cell to no avail. As soon as I’m able to take a lunch break, I hop in my car and drive to Jordy’s house. Mr. Jenkins’ truck is in the driveway, which I hope is a good sign someone is home. It’s only after I’ve rung the doorbell that I remember he works night shifts and is likely sleeping.

  All the curtains are drawn and it’s quiet inside. I wring my hands, wondering if I should press the bell again. I’ve only met Mr. Jenkins a couple of times and the encounters were brief, but they left me with a bad taste in my mouth. He’s not a pleasant man at the best of times, and I bet he’s even less so when he’s woken up during the day.

  I’m about to return to my car when the door flies open. Mr. Jenkins stands there, squinting in the sunlight, his whole body swaying before he grips the edge of the door. For a second, I think he’s sick and I almost feel a sense of relief; maybe he and Jordy have the flu that’s going around and that’s why she’s been MIA. Then the smell hits me: unwashed body and alcohol.

  “S-sorry, Mr. Jenkins, I forgot about your work schedule. I was just looking for Jordy. She hasn’t been at school or work the last few days.”

  “Work schedule,” he says with a scoff that turns into a hacking cough. “I don’t have a work schedule. Not anymore.” At my confused look, he exhales sharply, his booze breath nearly knocking me back. “Don’t you listen to the news, girlie? Or are you too busy interfering in people’s lives and being a do-gooder?”

  I open my mouth, but no words come. Which of those things do I address first?

  Before I can form a reply, Mr. Jenkins says, “Major layoffs at the factory. You’d think I’d have been safe since I gave them twenty stinkin’ years of my life, but guess not.” He pats the pockets of his ratty housecoat. From the stench of stale smoke mixed with alcohol, I’m guessing he’s hunting for cigarettes.

  “I’m sorry to hear that. Jordy didn’t mention anything about it.” I don’t give him a chance to respond before using the segue to ask, “Speaking of Jordy, do you know where she is?”

  “At her sister’s place.” He waves a dismissive hand and slumps against the doorframe as if he’s tired of this conversation already. “Baby’s sick or hurt or something. Jordyn went to watch the other one while her sister took the baby to the ER.”

  Despite ‘the baby’ and ‘the other one’ being his grandchildren, he shows no interest or concern. From what Jordy has told me about his parenting style, it shouldn’t surprise me he’s not a doting, loving grandfather.

  “Okay, well, can you please tell her I was trying to reach her? And have her call me when she can?” I give him a shaky smile and turn on my heel. Between the smell wafting from him and the hard stare he’s giving me, I need to get out of here.

  “What did we ever do before you?” Mr. Jenkins’ voice is quiet, but the sarcasm is unmistakable. I stop in my tracks, although I can’t bring myself to face him again. “How lucky is Jordyn to have you as the angel on her shoulder? Givin’ her a job, feedin’ her, putting big ideas in her head. Hey, while you’re giving handouts, how do you feel about writing me a check? I promise to use it for rent, food, and other necessities. Our cell phones were cut off on the weekend and the power bill is overdue. Company says they’ll be cutting the lights any day.”

  He’s baiting me, likely hoping I’ll snap at him so it gives him an excuse to unleash his own anger. I’m not angry, though, just sad. Sad it’s come to this for the Jenkinses and that a lot of families struggle with this very thing—unemployment, poverty, even addiction. His belligerence reminds me of how my own dad ended up when our lives fell apart.

  This is where the separation comes in. The compartmentalization. I can’t help everyone, as much as I want to. I could give Mr. Jenkins some money to tide him over until his next unemployment or assistance check, but he’d likely spend it on alcohol or cigarettes. I’ve seen it countless times before. It would be like slapping a tiny bandage on a gaping wound.

  I muster my courage, straighten my spine, and turn to face him. “Unfortunately, I can’t do that, Mr. Jenkins. But if you come to the center sometime this week, you can have a hot meal, talk to a job counselor, and fill out paperwork for emergency help with keeping the power on and paying other bills. You can even stock up on necessities before you leave.”

  His lip curls as I speak. By the time I finish, his whole face is contorted in disgust. He huffs, shaking his head and making another dismissive gesture. “Some help you are.”

  I press my lips together to hold back the words that long to spill out. It's obvious I’d be wasting my breath.

  Grumbling to himself, Mr. Jenkins stumbles back into the house and slams the door. I hurry to my car and get out of there as quickly as I can without speeding. At the first quiet side street, I pull over and turn off the car. My hands are shaking and my stomach is rolling. I don’t know what to do. I have no idea where Jordy’s sister lives, and the thought of her going back to her dad’s house makes me sick.

  Images of Mr. Jenkins standing in the doorway are replaced with visions of my own dad, intensifying the queasy feeling. Tears drip onto my fingers where they’re knotted in my lap. I hadn’t even felt them start, but when I touch my face, my cheeks are soaked. Not feeling confident enough to drive, I stuff my keys in my pocket, grab my purse, and get out of the car. This is a quiet neighborhood and it’s relatively mild for the beginning of December, so I decide to walk until my head is clear and I’m no longer shaking.

  I resist the urge to call the center and tell them I’m sick and need to go home. I contemplate calling one of my friends, knowing any one of them would drop everything and come get me. I don’t want to worry them, though, so I leave my phone in my purse, pull my coat tighter around me, and I walk.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  The first person I see when I enter the center a little over an hour later is Spencer. He’s talking to my assistant near the door to my office, and he smiles over her head when he sees me. The sight of him fills me with such a mix of emotions, I nearly break down in sobs.

  Somehow managing to keep it together, I suck in a breath and paste on a smile as I approach the pair. I apologize to my assistant for being away so long and ask her to continue holding my calls for a while. When she’s gone, I turn to Spencer. “This is a nice surprise. If you’ve come to call in your invitation for tea and crumpets, I’m afraid Jordy’s not here today.”

  “I’m actually here to drop off some paperwork. Fergus was going to bring it, but I offered to come.” He says this almost ruefully, as if he’s confessing something. I tell myself not to read too much into it. “Shame about Jordy not being here. I could really go for a cup of tea.”

  I make a strangled noise in the back of my throat. So much for keeping it together.

  “What’s wrong?” Spencer’s gaze drops to my mouth, where my bottom lip is quivering as I attempt to hold back tears. “Hollie?”

  The gentle concern in his tone pushes me over the edge. I only have a second to be mortified by the distressed sound that passes my lips before Spencer gathers me in his arms and holds me close.

  “There, now,” he says in a soft, soothing tone. His hand moves in a wide circle over my back. “Shall we go into your office?”